


Hasten Me Home

by magikfanfic



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Pre-Rogue One, look everyone is very emotional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 23:34:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9629915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikfanfic/pseuds/magikfanfic
Summary: The changes in Baze’s face are how Chirrut marks the passage of time. It is an imperfect method, but once Chirrut has put his belief in something, it is impossible to shake him from it. Baze has often remarked that his stubbornness is one of his worst qualities, though Chirrut has heard the admiration in his voice, seen the smile on his face (by touch and this is not as limiting as so many people think) when he chastises him, and so he knows that Baze does not dislike that facet of his personality as much as he professes to.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is a direct result of some [lovely fanart](https://normurdar.tumblr.com/post/156385585941/help) done by [normurder](https://normurdar.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Like most of my things, it's long and tends to ramble, but hopefully it serves as a suitable companion to the artwork.

The changes in Baze’s face are how Chirrut marks the passage of time. It is an imperfect method, but once Chirrut has put his belief in something, it is impossible to shake him from it. Baze has often remarked that his stubbornness is one of his worst qualities, though Chirrut has heard the admiration in his voice, seen the smile on his face (by touch and this is not as limiting as so many people think) when he chastises him, and so he knows that Baze does not dislike that facet of his personality as much as he professes to. They can both be rash men when it comes right down to it, though Chirrut is definitely the more unpredictable one.

There are a million moments that Chirrut has held in his hands over the years, but all of the best ones, the ones that glow fervently in the middle of the night and keep him warm when Jedha tries its best to freeze him, are associated with Baze. When he cannot sleep, he runs his hands over them, calling them back out from the recesses of his memory, so that he can relive them, allow them to settle his soul and lull him into a false sense of comfort. It is something that he has to do increasingly these days as the world around him has turned bleak and unsure. The Jedi are dead, the temple has fallen, and the Empire has settled into the city like dense smoke, filling every crack and crevice until it is hard to remember a time when they were not there. The citizens of Jedha try to breathe but just come up choking.

And Baze. Baze has gone.

Chirrut did not think he would, was actually quite sure that he was incapable of it, which was why he did not put up more of a fight in that regards. Except that he did leave, stole away in the middle of the night with nothing more than a ghosting of lips over Chirrut’s cheek that he cannot be sure even happened, but he dreams of it. Dreams of it and wishes he had woken because if he had, he is sure that he could have convinced the other man to stay. And now there is a Baze shaped hole in his world that nothing can fill, not even the memories that he pulls, nightly, from the brink of his mind or the hours that he spends meditating, probing into the Force, pushing further, demanding more than he ever has before.

The simple tenant of his faith, the faith that he has protected and immersed himself in for almost his entire life, is that the Force does as the Force wills. Trying to direct the Force, fighting against it, can bring discord and strife. Chirrut has always respected the teachings of the Jedi, but those were not the teachings of his temple or the path that he wanted to follow. For so many complicated reasons. It always made more sense to him that the Force existed like a river, flowing through everything, connecting everything, there to be felt but not directed. 

And now he spends hours trying to bend it to his will in order to find the man who means everything to him. If Baze was here, he thinks that he would laugh at him, call him a fool with affection in his voice. Of course, if Baze was here then Chirrut would not have to push the limits of his understanding, he would not be attempting to guide the tendrils of energy just to tell him, just to reassure himself that Baze is still out there somewhere. 

He likes to imagine that he would know if Baze died, but he never considered that Baze would leave so perhaps he does not know him as well as he thought. This troubles Chirrut. Almost more than the loss of the temple and the Jedi, more than the push of Stormtroopers in the streets and the lives snuffed out in the battles between them and the more fervent members of the resistance who pass through the city now and then. This idea that there is some part of Baze distant and unknown to him is troubling. 

He remembers the first day they met. It was a few days after Baze had joined the temple, though Chirrut had long been there. Chirrut had heard the new boy, sensed him too if he was being honest with himself, and followed that glistening thread until he found him in the main courtyard with some of the Guardians. He could hear the low, soothing voices of the masters as they explained things to the new boy, though he was not paying attention to the words themselves. No, he was much more interested in the burning, dense little knot in the Force that lingered there in front of him. 

“This,” one of the masters started, and he could sense them turning toward him, hand held out as though to introduce him.

“I’m Chirrut Imwe,” he cut in, stealing the moment, not sure which way to turn his face other than towards where the master’s voice had originated. While it would have been polite to let the master continue, he just wasn’t able to stop himself. That happened a lot. Often the masters would use words like impulsive and headstrong when describing Chirrut to others. Sometimes, especially when they thought the boy was out of earshot, they would use other words like nuisance. None of these words were hurtful because they did not stain or twist the Force around the speakers. As such, they were just words, and Chirrut knew there were quite a lot of those to go around. He used a number of them himself.

He had expected a response but maybe the boy was shy or unsettled because of the way his eyes looked. Some of the other kids were, he knew. There were a few who could be cruel about it as well, but it never took them long to see the error of their ways. For one thing, it never took Chirrut long to win people over with his charms. But, for the ones he could not win over that way, he would happily demonstrate his skills when it came to sparring. Even if he wasn’t, as the masters would remind him, supposed to resolve things that way.

He hadn’t heard anyone move away and that little knot was still a present glow in the Force. Not so much a light as a warmth, an intuition, though it was similar to when he turned his face toward the sun. Chirrut decided to take another little step forward. “It is nice to meet you.”

There was a small rush of air like an exasperated breath being blown out of someone’s nose, and then a voice deeper than he had expected. “Baze Malbus,” the words, a name, were mumbled and low. Someone else might have had trouble hearing them, but Chirrut was good at paying close attention to everything so he caught them.

Chirrut wasn’t sure what the masters were doing. They weren’t talking, but he also hadn’t heard them recede, which meant they were probably standing there, watching the interaction, being amused. Being watched, observed, was something that Chirrut was used to. It seemed to be one of the constants in his life, and while he was never able to see it to prove that it was happening, he could feel it. Always. In much the same way that he could feel the Force. Perhaps it was all connected. At the moment, he was much less interested in what the adults were doing than in the boy there before him. 

Taking another stride forward, he smiled, hoping the broad grin might help put the other at ease. “Baze,” he repeated the name and then nodded as though in approval. “Can I touch your face? To help me see you, and better know who I’m talking to.” There was the muffled sounds of feet shifting backwards on the ground, and he merely reached a hand out instead of advancing. “It doesn’t hurt. I promise.”

When the other did not move away, he chanced taking a step forward again. “Can I?” he repeated, the one hand still in the air, fingers flexing a little though he was trying very hard not to make the movement too aggressive. Chirrut was curious and intense and could be impatient, especially if he wanted something. All he wanted was to see this new boy, this Baze Malbus who was so quiet and yet so bright in the Force.

Finally the other boy moved forward and made another one of those breath noises, though this seemed less exasperated than it was accepting. “I guess,” came the reply and then a hand touched his own, guiding it to a face. 

Chirrut followed the one hand with the other, beginning the mapping. It was evident by the frown he felt and the furrowed eyebrows that Baze was not entirely happy with the situation, but he remained still and let the fingers glide over his face. It didn’t take long for Chirrut to find his hair, as short as his own, and then an ear. It was a large ear, and Chirrut could feel that Baze had started to blush, perhaps in embarrassment, as he traced his fingers over the shell, giving the lobe a tug before sweeping his fingers back down the line of the jaw. 

The whole thing probably hadn’t lasted longer than a handful of minutes, but Chrirut felt like he had learned quite a lot when he finally pulled away. Baze cleared his throat and there was the sound of him taking a step back. “Thank you,” Chirrut piped up, one hand going back up to catch the wrist of the other boy. It was larger than his own, and his skin was rougher. The bones stood out in a way that did not speak of frailty but a solid substance as dense as that knot in the Force.

“No one has seen fit to give me a companion for my room,” he said, tugging at Baze’s wrist just a little. “They say it’s because it would make it more difficult for me to move around with unknowns in the room.” Unknowns. What a silly thing to say. No matter how many times the masters had explained what they meant by that--bowls, toys, clothing--Chirrut had just tilted his head at them. It was not as if they could scour the entire world for him and clean it bare just to make sure he might not trip on something. If anything, wouldn’t it be better for him to learn to expect these unknowns, to learn to pay attention, find them and navigate around them? It was an argument that he never tired of having but had never won. 

Chirrut was going to win today. 

“Now I know,” he continued, starting to walk toward the dormitories, tugging Baze along behind him. The other boy did not make a fuss, either he really wasn’t the type or he was too stunned by the fact that a blind boy was seemingly more in charge of the place than the masters, and just followed along behind him placidly. “The Force always meant for us to become friends. My room was empty because you were not here yet. You are now. I will show it to you. You can fill it with unknowns. I won’t mind, but you have to promise to help me steer around them.”

Baze seemed to be clearing his throat again, and Chirrut wondered whether that would be the start of him protesting, but it wasn’t. Instead a gentle but confused, “Okay,” followed it. Behind them, still standing in a cluster in the courtyard, a chorus of soft chuckles came from the masters along with a command for Chirrut to remember to bring the other boy to dinner.

“How old are you? Where are you from? Why did you come?” Chirrut fired off question after question as they walked, so many of them and in such quick succession that he barely gave Baze any time at all to answer them. “Yes, I’ve always been blind. As long as I can remember. Your ears are big. The other kids are going to say something about that. Don’t worry. Just tell me which ones, and I’ll make sure to best them when we spar. Can you spar? I’ll teach you. I’ll teach you everything.”

And that little knot in the Force, the one that had drawn him outside in the first place, just seemed to pulse along in time, fast and steady like a heartbeat. Chirrut wondered if it would be at the same pace as Baze’s heartbeat, but it was probably a little early in their friendship to ask if he could check that. Baze had been accepting of his hands on his face but obviously not exactly comfortable with it. Some people weren’t.

“Is it okay if I keep touching you?” He gently squeezed his fingers around the other’s wrist to indicate what he meant. “Some people don’t like it. That’s okay. I just don’t know unless you tell me.” That was slightly a lie because Chirrut could often determine people’s emotions from a combination of the Force and just listening to them intently. But Baze was so quiet, and his presence in the Force was mostly just existence at the moment. He was harder to read. Plus Chirrut wanted him to speak. He liked his voice, what little of it he had heard so far.

“Also it’s easier for me, step up there,” he directed, lifting his feet, but feeling Baze stumble a little behind him because he either hadn’t been paying attention or Chirrut’s warning had come too late. “Sorry.” Then he stopped, the abruptness of the motion meaning that Baze bumped into him. “You haven’t answered any of my questions.” 

That bright little beacon seemed to pulse even quicker, but there was the sound of a throat being cleared yet again--Chirrut wondered if the other boy was sick--followed by his voice. “You wouldn’t stop talking.” And there was a strange little lilt to the end of the sentence, the way Baze’s tone went up in an incredulous and hilarious way that made Chirrut start laughing. Eventually, after a few long moments of Chirrut just standing there giggling, Baze started to chuckle, too. Chirrut wasn’t even sure exactly why he was laughing. There was just something about how Baze had said it, the words themselves, the way they were both polite--because Baze had been waiting for Chirrut to just stop--but also somewhat infuriated was hilarious in that moment. 

Chirrut pulls away from the warm memory, the beginning of everything, and sighs. Over the years, his sighs have taken on an exasperated, put upon air that mimics Baze’s sighs. Time spent with people leaves its mark. It passes on mannerisms, tones, ways of speaking, and noises. It blends the habits of one into the other so that it leaves an indelible mark. Chrriut can no more shrug off all of the little ways that his personality and body language have molded to reflect Baze than he can simply stop loving the other man. They hurt, though, those reminders of the lost man in himself. No, not lost but gone. Which is somehow even harder to take because lost would indicate the chance to find again. Gone is. Gone is different. And more of a choice.

Some days he does wish he could rid himself of the memories, the mannerisms, just pull them out one by one like so many discarded pieces of clothing to stack up and put them outside for others to carry away. Maybe then this would not be so difficult. Maybe then he could start to move on. Does he want to? Chirrut has been unable to answer this question when he asks it of himself. Logically, he should, but logic has never been the final word in Chirrut’s decisions. He is more rash, works on instinct and emotion. This is perhaps surprising considering his occupation, his status as a devout Guardian of the Whills, but he never needed to be reasonable, he never needed to be that careful. Baze was his voice of reason, and Baze took the greater care. 

Now he is without that, and perhaps too old or too stubborn to learn new tricks. Or waiting. For care and reason to return to him. For that bright little Force knot to come home again although he fears what it might feel like these days. If it exists at all. If it has not been cut and shaken out with a snap like a woman cleaning a rug. 

Chirrut wanders around the apartment. It is late, and he is tired, but sleep either does not come or brings too much with it for him to handle. Sometimes it is better to just trace his demons around the room. He knows all of them by name. They are old friends. The frightening terrors in his dreams are not always known. Chirrut does not exactly fear the unknown--all is as the Force wills it, after all--but that does not mean that he is not unsettled by it. It was never this way before. So much has changed. He has lost so much.

He settles himself back onto the floor, trying to mediate, his lips forming the familiar words, but his mind refuses to focus there, instead it trips backward into other recesses of memory, searching. There are so many places he could linger. The afternoons spent together cleaning things after getting into a fight with some of the other temple children because they had called him blind and Baze’s ears big. Chirrut always leapt first, but Baze was ready back-up, never content with letting Chirrut fight for anything on his own. It was not because he was blind, Chirrut knows, it was because Baze was just that loyal. Even when he didn’t necessarily agree with Chirrut’s reason for starting something, he was always there. Just there to have his back. Those days are gone, and Chirrut does not linger there because it reminds him that the other man is no longer here. That loyalty, that devotion did not hold out as he thought it would. 

No, he lets it fade away, to be visited another day. Maybe there is something else to calm him, help him sleep. He shifts through them until he latches onto something calmer. There is no bluster here, no fight, just warmth and the long lingering of fingertips on skin.

Initiates were not allowed to visit the kyber caves unattended, and this was especially true of the smaller one located in the desert outside of the holy city. The crystals were precious, and they were under the protection of the Guardians. Only those who had been properly trained and had proven their mettle were allowed to roam those chambers and even then it was not as freely as one might have suspected. The caves, it was written, could be overwhelming. Even the strongest, most devout Guardian should be on guard and limit their exposure so as not to get overcome.

To Chirrut, those words had been a challenge rather than a warning. The fact that he could hear the crystals so keenly, like a constant bird trill, in the back of his mind just made it harder for him to follow that rule. He had been sneaking, successfully and unsuccessfully, into the caves during the entirety of his life at the temple. And Baze was always with him, normally grumbling a little about getting caught and punished, but there nonetheless. 

Normally, however, they stayed at the cave connected to the temple itself because it was much closer and easier. When Chirrut decided that they were going to make a pilgrimage, Baze had been more than a little aghast and grumpy, but had folded like he always did. Chirrut had planned the trek expertly such that it fell during a particularly lengthy and involved temple ceremony for the masters. They would be hosting dignitaries and disciples of other faiths. It was a time of community and tolerance, but it was also a time when a lot of people were at the temple and they could slip away without being noticed.

The timing upset Baze almost as much as the goal of the trip itself because he had been eager to meet people from other temples and faiths, learn what they had to say as much as he wanted to share his own devotion in the force. Chirrut had been quick to point out that they probably would not have spent much time with him anyway, seeing as he was merely an initiate. Even if he was, as Chirrut liked to tease, the most devout in all the temple. Then he had cinched his lover’s dedication to the trip by tossing out the old line of, “How can you expect a blind man to cross the desert all by himself? I would die. Then my spirit would never leave you alone.”

“How is that different from now?” Baze asked but with none of the fervor that would have signaled to Chirrut that he would say no. 

So they had packed carefully, set out just before day broke and made their way across the desert to the kyber cave. It had not been the easiest journey, but it had been rather nondescript. Lots of Chirrut having to move slower than he would have liked because of the shifting sand under his feet, and lots of Baze complaining about the state of his hair and how the winds of Jedha, which never really stopped outside of the city itself, were his least favorite thing in the world. Except for, multiple times during that trip, Chirrut himself. Finally, though, they reached the caves. 

Standing at the mouth of the cave, so infrequently visited, had been a religious experience for Chirrut. His belief in the Force had always been easy because he was so keenly aware of it in his everyday experiences. It was not hard won like Baze’s devotion, which had been the result of a lot of study and doubt and figuring things out for himself. Standing there, however, unable to see it, but surrounded by the sense of it all, by the singing of the crystals and their brilliance in the Force, Chirrut had been driven to his knees, a reaction that had scared Baze and sent him scrambling down to join him.

“Chirrut,” he asked, none of that gruff posturing in his voice but all gentleness and worry, like nothing else had ever or would ever matter more than making sure that Chirrut was okay. 

Everything was heady, and Chirrut was lost in it. A swarm of so much that he was having trouble really figuring out what was happening. He had heard the crystals getting louder during their voyage, as though there was a choir in the desert that they were approaching, each step bringing them closer to those voices. This was not a choir; there was no single message or practiced compromise of tones. This was shouting. This was so much stacked on top of each other that it was almost impossible to find a way out. The cave at the temple was not like this, but Chirrut was too caught up in the tide to be able to consider why there might be such a marked difference.

It felt like Baze was calling to him from a great distance, and he was unable to reach him. Chirrut wondered, fleetingly in the moments when he was able to form his own thoughts, how Baze could not also be driven to the ground by the pressure, surely no one could be so Force blind as to be able to shrug this off. It seemed like he might drown in it, and that pressure was the first thing that convinced him, really convinced him, how great and terrible must be the power of the Sith.

The moment stretched on for an eternity, forever and never at the same moment, until there were hands bringing him back. A hand curled at the base of his neck, the other cradled against his cheek. He became aware of those touches first, warm enough against his skin to make him think he was being burned by them, but healing fire rather than one to consume him. Then there were words, mere whispers hidden beneath all the unidentifiable shouting.

Chirrut strained for them, focused on them, in much the same way that he was lingering on the solidness of the contact. “The Force is with me, and I am one with the Force. The Force is with me, and I am one with the Force.” Baze’s voice was thick with emotion but steady, the repeated words strong even if there was the slightest shiver there, so many layers down, a stark, cold fear that Chirrut would have to worry about and patch up later.

The shouting was starting to abate, though Chirrut had no way to determine whether it was because he was able to focus past it or it was just ebbing. Perhaps this was why initiates were not allowed to go to the kyber caves before they had passed all their tests. Long moment passed before he recognized the fact that he had started to speak as well, his litany the mate to the one that Baze had used to reach him. “I am one with the Force. The Force is with me. I am one with the Force. The Force is with me.”

As suddenly as it had fell away, the world snapped back into place. Chirrut took a halting, shuddering breath, letting the mantra stop in order to focus more on grounding himself in the moment. Baze’s hands were still on him, exactly where they had been and still so delicate and soft in their pressure, though the fingers on his cheek caressed the flesh instead of just lingering. The contact was comforting, necessary, a trail that led him back even more than the words.

“Chirrut?” Baze asked, letting the mantra fall from his lips as well. 

There were so many questions stacked into the utterance of his name that Chirrut almost felt overwhelmed again, but he chose to grasp onto the love and devotion, the things that existed simply because Baze did. That helped even him out a little more. When he put his hands up, fingers twitching, Baze understood what he needed without even a word being uttered, guiding them to his own face before putting his hands back where they had been.

Everything was silence while Chirrut explored the planes of Baze’s face, as though he expected that it might have changed somehow since he had done this last. He was having trouble recollecting when that had been, though he felt like it had probably been the previous day. His mind was still adjusting to all of it. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It was,” he swallowed, fingers twining into Baze’s hair. Long, braided, thick and full. So much hair. More hair than should be humanly possible, and gorgeous. Even if it was currently full of sand and knots. Chirrut’s fingers were careful, parting the strands gently, trying to ease it back into some semblance of order. Baze’s hair was his small vanity, and Chirrut often wondered if that was because of him. Any tactile experience that Baze could offer up to him was provided, and it was true that Chirrut could spend hours running his fingers through that hair, braiding it, combing it, petting it. It calmed both of them.

“Overwhelming,” Baze completed the thought that Chirrut left hanging, which was abnormal in and of itself. Normally it would have been the other way around. Baze was the one to trail off in the middle of his sentences, either lost for the correct word or just unsure about whether or not to finish the thought, still shy and hesitant.

“Did you feel it?” he asked, voice suddenly lower and hushed, the type of whisper that he usually only employed when one of them had snuck into the other’s quarters late at the night so that they could talk and kiss and touch. Chirrut needed to know, though. He couldn’t imagine that there was anyway Baze could have missed it.

Thanks to his hands on the other’s face, Chirrut was able to discern the barely there nod, and his fingertips pressed into the skin just a little more, trying to coax it out of Baze. There was a rumbly sigh, and oh how he knew those sounds and what each one meant because he had a whole treasure trove of memorized noises in his mind now, and then a clearing of the throat. It was something that Baze did to prolong the moment, give himself more time. “I felt it,” he finally answered.

Chirrut’s excitement swelled despite the fact that he had, just moment ago, felt like he was going to be washed out into a sea of Force sense and drowned in it. “What did you feel? Tell me.”

“Pressure,” Baze said. Both of his hands were on Chirrut’s cheeks now, thumbs brushing over the skin constantly to reassure them both that they were real and present. The answer was not enough, there was still so much unsaid, and Chirrut was about to push for more when Baze started speaking again. “In my ears. Like they were going to pop, but then they never did. It just got worse, a thrumming. So much of it. So much pressure. But not words, Chirrut. Not light or feelings. Not what you’ve told me about. Just pressure.”

It wasn’t quite the answer that he wanted, but there would be time to talk about that later. At that moment Chirrut was still shaken and overwhelmed, his senses felt like they were raw and torn. The only thing that was providing any comfort was the close, sheltering sense of Baze, the gentle sweep of his hands and the warmth of him under his own fingers. Baze pulled him infinitesimally closer and rested his forehead against Chirrut’s. “It’s okay. I’m here,” Baze said, the words wrapping around him sweetly. “I’ve got you.”

Chirrut twisted another braid around his fingers, wanting to bury himself in that mess of hair, bore into the very semblance of the other man and disappear. Not forever. Chirrut had never been the kind to run away from anything, but it would have been nice to feel completely surrounded, especially in that moment when he still felt shaken and worn. “I love you,” he said, and those words seemed almost too small when compared to what he had just faced, but he didn’t know a way to impart the full impact of what he felt for Baze. He had needed something, and that had been easy to reach. 

His fingers slipped down to rest on the back of Baze’s neck. They had exchanged affectionate words before of course, many times, but there seemed to be something different about doing so here, right in the face of so much kyber, so much living, existing Force essence. It felt more like Chirrut was making a vow rather than just expressing an emotion. Was there a difference there really? Hadn’t he been making vows as long as he had known this man? 

Baze breathed in that quickened way that he always did when they were touching, when they were gentle. Baze Malbus had many faces, and Chirrut knew each and every one of them, loved each and every one of them. The ones that only he saw were his favorites, but that did not take away from any of the others. He wanted to change nothing about the man, he simply wanted to share it all. “Marry me?” Chirrut asked, the words leaving his throat before he knew what was happening. Once they were out, he had a moment of panic where he considered shoving them back down his traitor throat because he was already raw and vulnerable; adding this level to it was maddening. 

It would have been easy to duck out of it, but he didn’t want that. And he didn’t want to hurt Baze with it, which it would have done. Nothing in the world was going to hurt Baze as long as Chirrut was alive to stop it. He had said as much the first day that they met when he vowed to best anyone who would dare make fun of Baze’s ears. This then was really nothing different except in its wording. The intention was the same.

So much time had stretched out that he wondered if Baze had been washed away by the Force tide of the kyber. He almost hoped that was the cause of the silence, unable to consider anything else. “Baze?” he drew the name out, hesitant and cautious and wanting, too tired and shaken to hide any of the emotions burning there. He was pleading.

There was the sound of a throat clearing and then a cough, Baze’s little tells of stretching time out as he tried to process, searched for words in that mind of his that would snap him up in its trap and hold him. Chirrut thought his heart was going to burst open while he waited. Finally there was the press of lips against his, searching, hungry, but hesitant, probably not wanting to push too hard or too fast because of the chaos that had just unwound around them.

Chirrut responded by twisting his hand further into the hair at the base of Baze’s skull, pressed into that kiss like his life depended on it, clambered into the other’s lap, desperate for contact. The hum of the kyber crystals, their solid, warm existence had been completely driven out of his mind by the knot in the Force that was Baze, that had always been Baze. His own threads were wound into it. Baze’s hands were at his waist now, steadying him, holding him solid and secure. 

When Chirrut finally broke away, panting, Baze pressed his forehead to his again, and he was so warm. Flushed. Perfect. It almost shattered Chirrut’s heart that he could not see him properly. Truthfully, he had never mourned his blindness until he knew longing, until he knew the heat of Baze’s skin and lips and tongue, the heaviness of his flesh. Then it crashed into him, this ache to see him, really see him, just once. Oh, he loved exploring him, seeing with hands and mouth, but it was not quite the same. He had so much, but Chirrut was greedy when it came to Baze; he wanted everything.

“How long are you going to make me wait?” he asked, voice breaking with the strain of so many questions unanswered, impatient. Chirrut could be patient and was in many things, but he had never been able to wait well when it came to Baze.

The hands around his waist remained, steady and sure, big, strong hands that seemed like they could crush anything but were always gentle. They tightened just a touch. “I,” Baze started and then stopped, descending into the hum for a moment before clearing his throat. “I always felt like we were. Bonded. Already. Chirrut, I don’t need anything fancy or formal.” Knowing Baze he was probably dreading the idea of something official, something with fanfare and an audience. Baze had always been a solitary, private person. “But if you want.”

The words sent a flood of relief through him, and Chirrut was grinning like mad, heart filling so full that he was surprised it had not buoyed his body into the air itself. “I would not braid flowers in your hair to make everyone look at you,” he teased. No, he would braid flowers into his lover’s hair for himself. Flowers and bells and whatever bright, clinking little trinkets he could find in the marketplace. They were not, as initiates of the temple, supposed to want physical, material little things, but Chirrut had always delighted in adorning Baze whenever and however he could.

“Maybe I don’t want everyone looking at you,” Baze suggested quietly, almost timidly which was an odd word to ascribe to the larger, gruff sounding man though that did not make it any less true, but Chirrut could hear the truth in the statement. 

They had always belonged to each other, and while this had not been hidden exactly, it also had not been shared with the world around them. Nor did it need to be. “I understand. We’ll let the kyber marry us, and we’ll consummate it there as well.” Baze’s blush at those words was bright enough that Chirrut could feel the heat coming off him. It was like the rays of the sun itself, and he grinned even wider, fingers tugging at one of the other’s ears. They were still large. There would be no growing into them now, but Chirrut didn’t mind. They had found uses for them over the years.

“That,” he stuttered over his words, and Chirrut’s grin got wider. “That sounds blasphemous.”

“The Force bound us together in the first place. Surely it will not mind being witness to our vows.” Chirrut might not have been the reasonable, logical one, but he had always been clever enough to use anything to his advantage in order to get what he wanted. And Baze, well, Baze had a very hard time saying no to him.

Baze cleared his throat again, his fingers had wandered from Chirrut’s waist back up to his neck, tracing patterns there that Chirrut knew he would follow with his lips. “We should decide tomorrow,” he suggested, voice husky with emotion and need. Chirrut could hear it, and that made him grin, shifting his hips against the other. 

“Tomorrow then,” he agreed before leaning down to capture Baze’s mouth. Again and again. Into the night. In the end, there had been no use to wait until the next day. They made their vows with the song of the crystals so strong and bright in Chirrut’s head that he was positive never had a truth been as true as the fact that he and Baze loved each other and belonged with each other. 

Chirrut would have been content to bask in that memory for the rest of the night and into the following day, would have been fine building an altar to the memory and worshiping it, but a noise outside the small dwelling that he resides in pulls him to sudden alertness. He grabs his staff, never far from his reach, and twirls it, dropping into a fighting stance. His echo box is across the room, on the table where he left it when he came in for the night. It is not needed in the cramped space, but now he considers launching himself at it to get a better sense of the world around him, the world contained out there that has become so unknown and deadly. Chirrut is deadly, too, but it surprises people. It gives him an advantage that he has never been above taking.

The noise has stopped, but it has not retreated. Chirrut reaches out to the Force, and is surprised when it comes back with a knot. A very familiar and well worn knot, one that he has traced fingers across for years, one that he is wound up into. One that he has very nearly convinced himself disappeared forever. Baze has returned. Baze has returned, and is probably waiting outside that door, clearing his throat and shuffling his weight, trying to decide how to proceed. Baze needs time, and Chirrut has almost always been willing to provide it. 

Before now.

Now he is as mad as he is relieved. Tapping the staff against the floor more out of a need to do something physically than because he wishes the other man to hear it, he crosses to the door and flings it open, mouth set, brow furrowed. He spits a Jedhan curse out into the wind. It means betrayer. It means deserter. It means an abandoned, empty loss, and a broken heart and years spent wondering and worrying. It means how dare you. How dare you break me. How dare you take everything from me so easily. It is a very specific word. Chirrut thinks that, perhaps, he invented it. 

He whips the staff up, lashes out at the place he knows Baze’s chest will be because he knows this man, but the noise that it makes is unexpected. Body armor. Yes, Baze would want something to wrap himself up in, some kind of shell, something to distance himself from everyone else in the world. A carapace. Like a beetle scurrying through the desert. He does not let the weapon drop, just thunks it against the armor again, a question, a warning. He is not going to be the one to speak first. He did not leave, did not sneak off in the middle of the night and disappear for years. He did not ruin them. When it comes to explanations and apologies, they are not on him, and Chirrut is in no mood to offer up an open hand right now. Not when he is so torn between paths. 

“Chirrut,” the word feels like a balm, a flag of surrender, but Chirrut does not relent. The staff taps against the armor, again, more solidly.

Fight me, the staff whispers. Fight for me, it yells.

The Force knot has frayed. It no longer shines the way it used to. Now it throbs softly like keening, like silent crying in the night. That was how Baze always cried, in the middle of the night when he thought everyone else was asleep. That was when he thought it was safe enough to let his sorrows take over. When they would hurt no one else. They always found Chirrut, though, tucked their heads into the side of his soul like small creatures looking for comfort. And Chirrut knew just how to brush the tears away, lift the darkness, bring a smile back to that perfect face.

That face. He longs to touch it, trace across it. He wants a new memory, a new moment. Force, he wants, but the anger, his own hurt, is so palpable in his mouth that he would not trust himself to speak if he even tried to. It feels like sand and glass, ground up, cutting into every bit of him. If he opens his mouth now, it will fly out and cut, rend things even further than they already are. No, he needs Baze to speak first, speak more. This man left him in the middle of the night with no explanation, and has sent no word in a handful of years as though he were replaceable to Chirrut. As though his absence would mean nothing in the face of Chirrut’s devotion to Jedha. 

Baze has never valued himself enough, has never seen the value that Chirrut found in him.

The staff hits again, speak!, but he also slides back a fraction of a step, to allow Baze entrance to the rooms they used to share. The years have not dulled him, and Baze knows the invitation, follows it, though he does not try to close the space or subvert the gesture of the staff over his chest. Chirrut hears him enter, close the door behind him, and lean heavily against it. His breath is fast, like it always gets when they are near, but the other noises he makes are new. There are changes in Baze, physical ones, that he needs to see, but they can wait. His fingers will not fall off from not running them over that skin, the years have taught him that, even if he still has trouble believing it.

“I’m sorry.” Fingers have wrapped around the end of his staff, and Chirrut wants to pull it away, longs to whack it against the knuckles, break them open, smell the tinge of blood in the air, but he doesn’t. He promised never to hurt this man, and Chirrut’s word is good. “I was,” he breaks off, waiting, Chirrut knows, for him to take the step forward, for him to speak, to build the bridges that Baze has such trouble with.

Chirrut’s face is set in stone, and he is ignoring how that knot sighs because all he wants to do is comfort it. He will not. He is resolute. The only word from his mouth is that Jedhan curse again, full of sand and breaking. Baze has never known him broken. Tipping, falling, failing, yes, but never busted on the floor. Chirrut has never known himself like that, and it is surprising that he feels it now. He thought he was managing only to find that was a lie told to keep him moving. He pulls the staff from the loose grip and tosses it aside, hears it clatter and clank in the corner. It is something to do with the energy buzzing through him, wild and reckless. This is a night where he could easily toss himself from a building to crash into Stormtroopers below, knock them to the ground, fight them all night long in order to burn himself down enough to sleep. He doesn’t move. Chirrut can hold a pose for hours.

He cannot see Baze, but he knows when he flinches, hears the rustle of thick, unkempt braids as he tips his face down. “Chirrut, come here. Come to me.” 

Neither of them move toward the other. Chirrut draws himself tall, crosses arms over his chest, tilts his head just makes sure that he keeps the gaze of his unseeing eyes at the sound of Baze’s breaths. This is as much a fighting stance as the other. He did not leave. He is not moving first, and Baze should know this much.

The knot flutters, sputters like a candle almost blown out by the wind. There are a lot of unknown sounds as Baze does something, unhooks straps and settles something onto the ground. Something heavy and forceful. Chirrut clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and wishes he had not tossed his staff aside because he wants it with him to hit that thing. “Can I come to you?” Baze asks. It is still not the words that he wants, not the explanations that he desires, but it is something. 

And Chirrut wants so desperately to feel the man against him again. Needs to make sure that this is not some sleep deprived Force illusion, some trick of his mind against him. He nods, once, curt and still wordless. It takes Baze years to cross the distance between them. Years and no time at all. There are hands around his wrists, the fingers covered in new calluses. His resolve buckles. His anger diminishes. Anger is the outward component of fear, he remembers, and he has so many fears about what had happened in that span of years. 

“Hi,” Baze rumbles, and Chirrut allows him to lift his hands, examine them, trace fingers across his palms as though Baze has suddenly become the blind one. He still does not trust himself with words, uncertain about whether he would be able to express himself without chasing the other man back out the door. “I dreamed about your hands.” There is such wonder in Baze’s voice, and something else, something down, down deep in the syllables, infinite, indescribable loss. It pulses through his Force knot, too. Pain, pain, pain. More pain than Chirrut has ever felt, and he lives in a dying city, he felt the wash of the death of Jedi as it licked across the universe. Somehow Baze feels more than anything in the whole world. This has always been the case. 

“I dreamed about your hands,” he says again, lifting one to his lips to brush a kiss across the knuckles, the palm, the back, the bone in the wrist. Chirrut does not pull away but does not press closer. His heart is a drum in his chest, the sounds of war and love desperately pulsing through his veins. “I dreamed about you nightly. In the dreams, you started to turn away from me. I thought you knew what I had done, what I was doing. I became convinced the knowledge was funneling through the stars, filling you up, drowning you. Do you remember the night at the kyber caves?”

This question makes him jerk his head up, clench his hands, react to what is happening instead of just letting it occur around him. Chirrut says nothing, but nods again, once. A sign to continue, to go on, that, yes, of course he remembers that, he is not a fool, how could anyone forget that. This is what he wanted, just this, just Baze being full to bursting with words for once, and him quietly absorbing each piece. It does not escape his notice that he was just in that memory only moments ago.

“I worried they would find you, my deeds, through your Force.” It is “your Force” now, not theirs, and that is almost enough to make him snatch his hands away in anger, but he stays. He stays because he needs this, he wants this. This and so much more. Keep talking, he pleads in his head and wonders if that will be enough to get through Baze’s own stubbornness, his own refusal to remember, to believe. It breaks his heart that Baze’s belief, so hard won, was able to slip and dart back into the night. That is part of fear, too, and they will work on it. If they ever manage to work past this. Each moment, each word, each press of those lips against his skin, eases away all those nights of pacing and worry. He falls too easily for this man, always has.

Baze’s words are slow and low, a rumble in his chest that Chirrut wants to press his ear to and feel more than hear. “If they had found you, if they had overwhelmed you, like that day in the sands, I was sure you would be lost to me. Forever. I needed.” His words shake like they did when they were young, and he started declaring how he felt, so afraid, so sure that the feelings would not be reciprocated. Fragile is a word that should not apply to Baze, and yet it does. It always has. “I needed.” 

Somewhere a dam breaks.

“I needed you. I needed your starlight, and your smiles. I needed your anger. Your insufferable way of crashing into the night without looking. I needed you to be safe. I needed you to love me. Still. I needed. Chirrut. I needed you.” The words are a rush, and Baze’s voice breaks and falters so many times during them that Chirrut wonders if he actually gets them all out or if the Force picks up when he cannot finish. “I dreamed about your hands,” he says again, his voice thick with tears this time, fingers and lips still tracing over the flesh. “I wanted you to see me, and I never wanted to you see me again because I had ruined myself.” This time, he is the one to mutter the Jedhan curse, to turn it on himself, to strap the weight of it to his back, a burden that he will carry as Baze has carried all burdens that ever offered themselves to him. And so many more that he simply picked up along the way because even Chirrut could not convince him to let them be.

Chirrut moves now, finally set in motion. His heart is still heavy, feels fractured, unsettled. Being unsettled is not something he is used to. Baze does not try to interfere with any of his movements, stays as still as stone, barely seems to be breathing even, hesitant to do anything to break it more. He is out of practice, and it takes a few tries for him to locate Baze’s face, which he has tipped down in silent defeat. It has been too long since he has seen him, since he has felt him. The warmth, the familiar skin now strange, brings tears to his own eyes. He has not touched anyone in love in years. He has not touched his love in years.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs as Baze’s fingers find his wrists again. “I’m here.” There is much to talk about. So much. So many questions he needs answered, so many fights that they are undoubtedly going to have because something in Chirrut is still an angry spark, how can it not be when he was left, but that is not for the now. 

“I see you,” he says, hands sweeping up across Baze’s cheek, his forehead, finding a scar that makes Chirrut’s heart lurch inside his chest. He feels the tears on Baze’s face, slips his hands into the hair, finds the braids and the tangles. “I love you. Still. Always.”

Baze says nothing, just breathing, his heart slowing from its too quick beat to match Chirrut’s own. Chirrut kisses him, and it is like that night in the kyber cave. Blazing, burning, beautiful, too much, overwhelming, a sharp swell of voices in his mind, but he does not care. When they break apart, he leans his forehead against Baze’s, falling so quickly back into the habit of touching him, of wanting to touch him always, see him everywhere. “Never do that to me again,” he rasps out, a warning, a lesson. 

“I dreamed of your hands,” Baze repeats, and Chirrut is three seconds from chiding him that this repetition is tiresome when he continues. “They tugged at my ears. To call me a fool and hasten me home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come find me on [ Tumblr](http://sarkastically.tumblr.com/). I'm open to prompts, though I do have two fanfics still IP so sometimes getting to new things can be slow.


End file.
